


(Don't Fear) The Reaper

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Blood and Violence, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Death, Demons, F/F, Monster of the Week, Monsters, Pining, Pre-Canon, did i type this all out in a day because i love them already? uhhhh. no?, dont worry she's mostly fine, the major character death is betty btw, well. just one. he's a dick., which is kinda mutual but in the WORST possible way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 22:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18678313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: “Do you see?”Malphas asks in a voice like a death omen,“You’re mine now. She doesn’t recognise you. She’ll only ever hate you.”“Okay,”Bette whispers,“Call me Betty.”(She begs it, like a last request. She doesn’t want her name in the demon’s mouth, not when it belongs in Cleo’s.)





	(Don't Fear) The Reaper

**Author's Note:**

> i... have nothing to say for myself. Working Title: _me? already attached??? MAYBE_

The first thing Bette notices that isn’t screaming is blood. Except, it’s not blood? Not quite. Blood is red and hot, and it hurts as it seeps out of you, and it hurts as the man standing above you siphons it from your veins it and pours it down his throat.

Blood isn’t half-translucent, isn’t cold, isn’t blue and silent as it drips to the floor. _“NO,”_ someone screams. 

Cleo.

 _Cleo,_ her partner, who was brutalised and bloody, who Bette threw herself in front of. 

_(Not her, not her, not her!)_

(The cultist had been more than happy to drag Bette into the salt circle instead. Something about more blood for their Lord.)

Cleo, who Bette turns to see screaming, who Bette turns to see slashing at a cultist with her knife. Wild and uncoordinated, the way she never is. Blood isn’t cold, doesn’t drip from your open chest, doesn’t slip down your skin and turn even colder as you watch your partner slaughter hooded figures.

It’s a massacre.

Bette shudders and crouches down low. She doesn’t— her head is swimming, and she doesn’t understand what’s made Cleo (her Cleo, who held her after a bad fight with a Wolfman that left them both shaking, who gripped her hand defiantly, who always got her extra table salt even as she teased Bette about how unhealthy it was) go so berserk. “Come on,” Cleo pleads, and blood is _everywhere,_ dark red staining the walls and the robes and the corpse in the salt circle that her Cleo is kneeling over, “come on, you’re okay, get up.” She’s not cruel, Cleo isn’t, but she’s never cared so much about civilians that are so clearly dead. “Please,” Cleo says, and her voice breaks as she takes the corpse into her arms, “you can’t leave me, Bette.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s what’s wrong.

Oh, that’s why the world feels off.

 **“Don’t worry,”** rasps a voice in Bette’s ear, **“I won’t make you kill her yet.”**

 _“Malphas.”_ Bette knows it instantly, and her voice is too soft now, too ethereal and with the caw of something she knows she must serve echoing beneath it.

Blood is everywhere, and it’s odd to realise that so much of it is her own.

Cleo turns, whips around, and Bette doesn’t know what she looks like, but her partner’s eyes go wide. “You,” she grits out, voice hoarse and ragged. Blood is everywhere, and it hurts to realise how much of it is soaking Cleo’s clothes. Some of it is hers. “You bastard!” And Cleo comes flying toward her, rage in her eyes, and Bette doesn’t know what to do until Malphas croaks in her ear.

Bette bristles, crow feathers puffing up, and Cleo tears at her with the knife Bette uses (used) to cook, and then Bette isn’t there anymore. **“Do you see?”** Malphas asks in a voice like a death omen, **“You’re mine now. She doesn’t recognise you. She’ll only ever hate you.”**

Cleo burns the cultist’s house down with the matches she swore she’d never use. Bette watches and her not-quite-heart aches for her partner, and her not-quite-lungs ache for the cigars she quit. For the cigars she used to light with those blue-tipped matches.

 _“Okay,”_ Bette whispers, _“Okay.”_ Her partner leans against a tree as the house burns down, and tears make tracks in the red-red-red of drying blood. _“Call me Betty,”_ she says. (She begs, like a last request. She doesn’t want her name in the demon’s mouth, not when it belongs in Cleo’s.)

Malphas laughs, cawing and broken, warped like Betty has become. **“Betty.”** It’s a mockery. It’s better than something true. Malphas nods to her partner, and it’s a taunt as much as an order when he says, **“Follow her. Find her weaknesses.”**

Betty watches her go. _“Yes, my Lord.”_ Cleo breaks down crying as soon as she gets to the motel they were staying in. Betty sits next to her on the bed, half floating, incorporeal and unseen, wishing she could hold her partner close.  
\---  
Betty can’t help. She has no choice but to watch as something that used to be a cultist stands over her partner. “Some hunter,” he/it snarls, and black energy crackles along his sword’s blade. Betty can’t help because Malphas is near, is half realised in this warped cultist with a mane of crow feathers and too-sharp talons. Betty can’t do anything but watch as he/it raises that crackling sword for the killing blow.

_CRUNCH._

“Oh, holy shit!” Betty gawps at the red (rusted, so very, _very_ rusted) car that’s just backed over the warped cultist. The driver’s voice is tinny and cracking, and the person who gets out of the car is _tiny._ There’s no way they’re old enough to drive. They laugh hysterically, “Oh my god, what _was_ that thing?”

Cleo grunts and starts getting to her feet. “Dangerous,” she grits out, “you need to get away.”

The kid scoffs and walks over to her. They hold out a hand to help her up. “It’s not so dangerous! I mean, I’m _basically_ eighteen, that thing can’t be too bad.” Cleo accepts the hand up, and Betty is suddenly very worried for the kid’s mental wellbeing. They don’t question the black blood spattered across their car or the crow-like monstrosity they’ve just run over; they ask, “Are you okay? That’s a lot of blood.” They look like they’re ten. 

They look terrified when the cultist wraps an arm around their throat and pulls them back. “This is your backup?” Cleo edges closer to where the thing fell. He/it snarls, and the kid yelps. Cleo grabs the huge, black-hilted sword from the ground and thrusts it straight through the thing’s forehead. It falls, dragging the kid down with it. 

The kid doesn’t seem traumatised at all, which is a minor miracle. “Wicked,” they breathe.

Malphas is weakened, is nowhere near her, too busy pulling his essence back together from the cultist’s broken form to observe and command her. Betty bides her time, though, doesn’t attempt to break from her bonds. She kneels over the abomination and watches her partner limp into the kid’s car. “Man, monsters are real! Wicked, I can’t believe it! You’re pretty weird too, with all the blood and the sword– is that your sword now? This is _so weird._ I mean, in a good way. I think? That’s a lot of blood, should I bring you to a hospital? I can totally drive you there, by the way! I’ve got boxes taped to the pedals like they did in that one cartoon, it’s totally cool, come on!” Betty watches the classic car peel off.

It really is in terrible condition.  
\---  
_“Let me gain their trust,”_ Betty says. (She begs, like another last request.) _“I’ll destroy them both from the inside, my Lord.”_

Malphas croaks weakly, still withered from the botched ritual that attempted to bring him into the physical world. **“Very well,”** he agrees, **“and once the opportunity presents itself, I expect you to _destroy them.”_** Betty nods.

She puts on a pair of sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. Betty, she’ll be Betty, and Cleo won’t find out that her love works for the very thing she now hates.  
\---  
“Sam,” warns Cleo, “Sam, that doesn’t work for ghosts, _Sam—”_

The car backs through Betty again. “No no no,” assures the kid, “I got it this time!” They drive forward (clipping a hedge very badly) and then slams back into her. Betty sighs. “I missed!” Sam squeaks.

Cleo attempts to grab the hunting rifle (there are rock salt pellets in her pocket, Betty can feel them gritting against her) but Sam drives forward again, and it drops to the floor. Betty floats in front of them and Magics the hedge back. Sam blinks. “Wicked,” they say.

 _“I’m not going to hurt you,”_ soothes Betty, _“I want to help—”_

“That was magic!” Sam announces. Betty blinks at them. She wants to cut in, but Sam stands up in their seat. “You just used magic! Can you teach me?”  
\---  
Cleo sighs and stirs her milkshake. “Look,” she says, “I… I had a partner.” Betty stills. It’s just them, Sam’s sleeping at their mum’s house for the weekend, and Betty suddenly wishes the kid were there as a buffer.

 _“Really?”_ Betty asks, and her sunglasses darken. (Cleo would wax poetic about her eyes, loud and joking, as Betty groaned and half-heartedly pushed her away. Even though they’re different now, glowing as though lit from within, Betty needs to be careful. Cleo went mad when she saw Betty that first night. Betty can’t stand to lose her.) _“Like, a monster hunting partner, or?”_

Cleo stares down at her drink. Betty wishes she could kiss her forehead and make everything better. “Like a romantic partner,” she clarifies. She looks up at Betty, and there’s so much anger and hurt and apology and loss wrapped up in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Cleo says, “but you’re just not her.”

Betty can’t cry, but she darkens her sunglasses more anyway.  
\---  
“It’s aliens,” asserts Sam, “definitely aliens.”

Cleo and Betty share a look, and for half a second, Betty never died. For half a second, Sam is just someone they’ve taken under their wings and decided to help grow up into a monster hunter. For half a second, Cleo never went berserk.

Cleo clears her throat and looks at the cows in front of them. “It’s not aliens,” she says.

Betty doesn’t have lungs, but she still sighs. 

She wishes she’d had more than half a second of her partner back.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh yeah i'm in love. find me on tumblr @roswyrm i talk about the main characters too but currently we're on four-week motw lockdown.


End file.
